


Of Alcohol and Shortcomings

by VandalisticVanadium



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Confiding, Drunk!Tom, Flashbacks, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VandalisticVanadium/pseuds/VandalisticVanadium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot. Vampire!AU. Hiddlesbatch towards the end.</p><p>Sorta based off a tumblr post - "Two vampires lying on the floor drunk and trying to describe each other because they can't use mirrors." Tom, after visiting Chris and seeing his plight, is not convinced if he's fit to follow a vampire life, and Benedict tells him of how he turned Tom and why he did it, over several glasses of wine. Cue Tom getting drunk, and revealing to his Turner  the only reason why he regrets being a vampire. Sexual content towards the end, but nothing too major.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Alcohol and Shortcomings

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory new year gift for the fabulous theshortdragonofglory, who has been nothing short of an amazing OTP and fandom companion-slash-reptilian, fire-breathing pet. 
> 
> Also, it's been a long while since I wrote fanfiction so my skills are sorta rusty. Do tell me if there's anything wrong with it.

Tom liked to think that he didn’t count himself amongst the brooding and emotional sort.

You know, those sort of bloodsuckers who resort to sulk and mope about the harsh cruelty of the life imposed upon them, and would spend endless hours imparting negative energy by writing such groan-worthy poems depicting their emotions on trying to cope up with their rejection from the so-called ‘stately’ pleasures of mortal life because they were condemned by nature.

Tom detested them and their works equally. He wondered why people were so fixated on the shortcomings, instead of appreciating such a wondrous and carefree existence where opportunities ran galore and the fear of a senile death was non-existent.

He wished he could slap some sense into them. 

And that was what he partly wanted to do to the blonde-haired man sitting opposite to him, who was crying his eyes out while clutching a half-empty bottle of Old Scotch Whisky tightly to his chest and trying (but failing miserably) to envelop the circular table as if it was something dear to him.

But humanity be damned, Chris was a dear friend to him, and he didn’t want to upset him when he was going through a rough stage. The slow realization of a desolate vampire on learning that he was terribly alone in this time-bound world after the initial excitement on being turned was really a sight to watch, Tom thought wryly.

He had been quite alright when Evans and Scarlett visited him for a few days, keeping him company and actually lifting his spirits up a bit. But that all went downhill when they finally had to leave him, reminding him of the harsh truth that he couldn’t become part of a clan but they’d try their best to search for his long-lost wife and daughter.

Tom couldn’t really blame them. He knew that each vampire was destined to spend at least a considerable amount of time with their masters upon turning, learning the ways on how to lead a perpetual, ‘blood-diet’-centric life and exercising control over their blood-lust and new supernatural capabilities, before they acknowledged them as their equal and they’d be free to roam about. But Tom found it safe to say that most of the vamps he met during his life had opted to stay with their turners as they couldn’t even handle thinking about an existence in isolation.

But since Chris was the result of a reckless and disgraceful act, as his Turner had promptly tossed him aside after he quenched his thirst with the human’s blood, the well-built man’s life was a nightmare. Loneliness had wrecked the man irreparably and left him a pathetic and uncaring mess. Tom could only look at him with an expression that could only be least described as sympathetic.

Chris took another swig of the poison from his bottle, letting the alcohol melt softly on his tongue and felt the liquid run down his throat. He then looked at Tom and a soft, distressing laugh came out of him.

“D’you know… d’you know how funny it is when I picture your Chris-I’m-so-done-with-your-shit face along with your Chris-I’m-so-sorry-that-yer-so-alone face?” He drunkenly slurred, slipping into his Aussie accent more than a few times and making the whole ordeal ten times more distressing to watch.

Tom smiled sadly. He wasn’t sure on how to deal with Chris if he continued this practice. Even though regular consumption of alcohol didn’t cause any major damage to the liver  since the blood was no longer being circulated actively to the organs that were no longer deemed useful, the alcohol still had an effect on the thought processes of the brain and instilled within the haziness of being drunk. Not to mention the splitting, excruciating headache it left the day after.

 “Chris,” He gently insisted, and the reciprocator faced him with a drunken smile, encouraging him to go on, “I think it’s time you had enough.”

Chris waved him off. “Ye… ye go on, Tom. I might just have another round.”

Tom felt he really couldn’t bear this any longer as he shed whatever ounce of patience he had in him and swiftly grabbed the blonde-haired man’s wrist in a soft but insistent grip. “That’s enough, Chris. I can’t stand this anymore.”

Chris was stunned for a while before laughing again, but this time it was dry and meaningless. Tom felt his heart quicken in apprehension as the other resumed his seat on the opposite side and called out to the waiter on the other side of the large and inconspicuously-lit bar.

“Of course Tom,” He said, suddenly sounding only vaguely drunk, “But suppose I don’t want to listen to you?”

The raven-haired man narrowed his eyes. “What do you me...”

“I mean what I said.” Chris replied, dangerously calm as he took the bottle from the waiter who’d just arrived at that moment, “It’s easy for you to say, since you lead such a comfy existence. I mean, a plethora of women just swooning at the mere request of attending to you? Heck, man! And don’t let me even start on the fact that you have a boyfriend whose house is just… classy, to put it lightly…. ”

At this point, Tom felt obliged to interrupt. “I’m not his boyfriend.” He stated nonchalantly.

The other waved him off for the second time that night. “Whatever… partners, accomplices, pals, I honestly don’t care! The fact is that I’m envious of you. I envy that you lead such an exciting and colourful life, I envy that you’re just so optimistic about everything, but most of all, I envy that you are not alone. You have someone worth living for everyday and spend sleepless days and with whom you can share the thrill of hunting and sharing, while every hour I spend contemplating whether to jump in front of the sun and to end this disastrous life once in for all.”

The younger man suddenly felt uneasy. “Chris, for the love of god, if you’re planning to….”

“Oh fuck no. I’m not planning on suicide!” Chris exclaimed, raising his voice a pitch louder to the extent that nearly everyone in that bar had turned to their direction. “Do you think I am that dumb? No! I’m just waiting for the day I can meet Elsa and India again so I can turn them too. Otherwise,” He took another swig from his bottle and his face resumed the earlier weary and pitiful expression, “I might have to do just that.”

Tom visibly paled. “Chris, I ….” He started again.

“Don’t, Thomas.” Chris refused to face him. “Just go.”

Tom lingered for a moment before deciding to let the man be. After all, Chris was one of the most powerful bloodsuckers he’d ever encountered. His only worry was that he’d give into his fatigue and he’d wake up in the middle of the road at sunrise, too weak to even move.

Best if he avoided such thoughts and check up on him in the following day to see if he was alright.

He moved away from the emotionally-unstable vampire and towards the exit door of the bar, pushing it open gently and braced for the inevitable rush of cold air that would nip at his poikilothermic skin. He was not mistaken.

Tom gently rubbed his palms together out of practice, only to be harshly reminded that the action was beyond futile. He breathed out of exasperation into the night sky, as he stood outside the barely-luminescent bar, only to be further frustrated on finding that his breath no longer froze over.

He needed company.

He decided it best if he reached home at the earliest. He didn’t want to waste the rest of the night worrying over Chris, even though he was terribly broken and the selfless part of him wanted to turn back to the bar and to tell him everything will be alright.

But he couldn’t guarantee that.

And Chris, especially a drunk Chris when his decision-making skills have been almost reduced to naught, is bound to grow angry over that, and Tom did not want to face him when he was angry.

And so, Thomas William Hiddleston, age-frozen at 32, and living a problem-less, comfortable, immortal life found himself, for the first time, facing an existential crisis.

* * *

 It grew darker and more windy as he reached the rather spacious house situated a few streets away from the bar. The large clock tower that was positioned at the centre of the city struck twelve, and a dozen bongs that followed after instilled within everyone awake(those who were mortal, anyway) the severity  of the unearthly hour it has become. Tom stared at it, briefly thinking about how such a fickle and vacillating concept of time, could forever change the life of anyone, any moment. It was uncanny on how it could take a period of ten years, a day, an hour, even a millisecond to make such a drastic difference in one’s mortal life.

Since he shed his mortal life behind, Tom stopped appreciating the rush and the constant hustle of things. Maybe it was because of the excess of time in his hands, to not care about dying from human causes, and to just go along with the change rather than stopping behind at one fixed position. But he knew most bloodsucking people weren’t so acceptable about the constant change, and would just like to settle down at some point. Otherwise, they’re bound to be prone to mental infections as the sight of someone who you hold most dear age and die when you forever remain youthful takes its toll after a while.

No wonder Turners are so reluctant to let go of their fledglings.

And no wonder how extremely often the cases of self-incineration happen among solitary vampires.

Inside the house, he could vaguely hear the soft sounds of the piano as skillful fingers handled each and every note with perfect timing that softly coalesced to form the melody of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, which was all too familiar to him.

He loved to listen to him play the piano. It was one of those moments which made him actually appreciate time. He loved how his graceful fingers brushed the ivory bars and frequently moved to the other side so as to capture a note beyond the capability of the regular octet. He loved how his eyes would darken with concentration but when Tom would take a seat beside the large hold of the grand instrument his eyes would lighten up. He loved how brilliantly gifted and capable his Turner was, and that how lucky he was to share the fleeting moments of the 21st century together.

Tom lightly knocked at the dark, mahogany wood that made up the large front door of the mansion. On cue, the piano stopped and a flurrying of footsteps down the staircase was heard.

Barely did Tom register all these sounds before the door opened, and moments later he was gazing into the sharp, grey eyes of his Turner.

He smiled at him. “Hello Ben.”

Benedict eyed him with mock-skepticism and moved aside to let him enter. However, on noticing his slouched frame and slightly weary eyes, he stopped him midway.

“Rough night?” He asked, with a hint of concern in his voice, “What happened?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders as he removed his coat and hanged it upon the coat rack. “Nothing of much importance.”

“Did you go out hunting?” Benedict asked.

Tom let out a scoff. “Since when do I do so without your supervision? You know I’m still an amateur regarding that part.”

Tom’s subtle attempt at making a joke to lighten the sudden tension in the air did little to ease the worry building within Benedict.

The brunette man looked at him with slight tentativeness before following him onto the living room, where he found him already propped upon the sofa, staring out into the city from the large French windows nearby. He joined him, taking a seat on the chair next to it.

Benedict resorted to staring at the younger man till he pried open his mind on whatever that has been bothering him. For a while, there was nothing but the soft sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and the moonlight beaming through the windows to keep them company.

Minutes ticked by. He found himself glancing at the clock as his impatience got the best of him. He then glanced down to Tom’s face only to see the same look of impassiveness, staring out the window, not a single word out of him.

When Benedict felt that he couldn't bear the thick shroud of awkwardness that had enveloped them for a second more, Tom decided to break the silence.

“I was with Chris.”

“Hm?”

“Earlier, I mean. He was in need of some company so he called me by dusk before you woke up. He then proceeded to drink and things sort of got ….emotional.”

Benedict nodded gravely. He knew Chris enough to know that he was a tad unstable when drunk, and that, multiplied by his frustration on not seeing his wife would only give a catastrophic result.

He wasn’t going to put the blame on him. He knew the blonde-haired man was someone of good intentions, and that Tom liked his company enough to spare time for him. Benedict never refused it; after all, his mentor days on Tom were over. He could no longer dictate what he should or should not do, even if he wanted to. The man was physically capable of supporting himself and the only reason why he decided to stay with him was because he heeded his advice.

A long silence resumed again. Benedict decided to break the silence this time. “D’you want to….”

“Why did you turn me?”

That took him by surprise. “Pardon?”

Tom took a deep breath before repeating the question.

Benedict fidgeted slightly. He wasn’t expecting this question at all. Of course, there is the natural curiosity of every fledgling to learn and understand why things so happened, but he didn’t think of Tom to put forward this out of the blue.

Not that he minded anyway.

“Would you like some wine, Tom? You look quite knackered.” He said, after a while.

Tom nodded. The older man got up, brushed some dust which had accumulated off his pants, walked towards a glass cupboard situated at the edge of the living room, and opened it. A few minutes passed by, and he emerged holding a bottle of red wine.

He poured out a glass for himself and for his ex-pupil. Tom accepted the drink but still looked expectantly at Benedict, waiting for an answer.

He resumed his earlier seat and looked quite longingly at the brightly-lit night panorama of the city through their window.

“I don’t… quite remember why I did it, to be honest.” Benedict said, tentatively. He circled the rim of the spherical wine glass before continuing, “Why the sudden interest?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “I just... seeing Chris struggling with his life, just because some inconsiderate vamp promptly tossed him aside after the greedy bloke had his share…. I mean, it’s not as if he had a choice. He was turned by ill luck. And if that’s so, what could have possibly led me to accept this life filled with blood-lust, if Chris didn't want it?”

“You’re not Chris, Tom. Turning is a boon to some, and a curse to others. It is the circumstances what decides how your life will be. And even if it was otherwise, you've got to learn to live with it.”

“But who’s to say it’s not like that? I hardly know anything in my mortal life before you turned me. I need to know how I've lived my past life, and you’re the one I know alive who can answer that.”

Benedict sighed. Tom seemed adamant.

“Tell me, Ben. When and why did you turn me?” He asked.

The older man sighed softly before giving in. “It’s been a long while, hasn't it? Maybe I did it because I was lonely. I remember passing through a lonesome stage, right after that rebellious stage every fledgling adopts on defying their turner’s orders…” He chuckled reminiscently. “I regretted it soon enough. A few decades later, I was nearly suffering the same condition as that of Chris’.”

Benedict took a long drink from his glass. He needed to flush all those memories away. They belonged to the distant past, and he no longer dwelled in them. He had Tom now, and they were content enough to live with each other, to keep each other company, and their bond was strong.

“Do you not remember anything prior to your turning?” He asked, turning to Tom.

The younger man shook his head as he laid back on the sofa. “I’m not as lucky as Martin to get random fragments of memories from your mortal life whenever you wish to, Ben.”

Benedict chuckled. “Alright, I’ll try my best to recall what happened.”

“I do remember an exhibition in Venice, and the year was about… 1875, I think? They had all these art collections, and I needed something to pass the time after I had finished my hunt. And that was when I met you.” 

* * *

Benedict never imagined what it was like visiting an art exhibition. As a fledgling, he was much like his Turner – practical, full of bloodlust, and had no time to spare for such ‘petty’ distractions, as Mark put it. He had lived with him for too long, and even today, he still thinks he had imbibed much of his Turner’s practices and refuses to let go of them.

His decision to leave him was hasty and unthought-of, but in the long run, he still thought it was for the good. He did not think high of clans; even though he knew it would increase the efficiency of a planned hunt. But living in a crowded place amongst many other fledglings outweighed that advantage.

Martin was his first friend. He was the first fledgling to be turned by Mark, soon followed by Andrew. There had been a total of 5 members in the  _Gatiss_ clan, before Benedict was turned – somewhere around the 18 th century, he presumed.

He couldn’t think of a specific reason as to why he decided to leave him in the first place. Confliction of opinions certainly topped the list of good enough motives. After he had matured, he began to feel the need to exert his opinions on the various matters of the nest – his methods of hunting, efficient manners of executing, allowing each member access to their personal needs and entertainment – most of which Mark found absolutely revolting and argument-inducing. The whole affair was sort of similar to how rebellious teenagers would go against their guardians in order to exer  t their importance, Ben later thought wryly.

At the beginning, Martin sort of took half the responsibility for all the actions. He had looked after Benedict in his own way, and he felt as if he was partly to be put to blame for the sudden change in his attitude. He literally dragged him away from rows, tried to solve the issues, but in the end things only worsened. He felt as if things had spiraled out of control even more than he was capable of handling.

That was when Ben decided to leave them. Mark scoffed and warned him that he’ll be back, within a century at most, and that most of the solitary vampires he’d encountered in his life met with horrific endings. But he paid them no mind. With a final promise to Martin that he’ll visit him often, and sending a spine-chilling glare towards his master, he never set foot in Mark’s nest ever again.

Initially, he felt quite rejuvenated, being at the mercy of no one and to be free to pursue his interests. In the night when he thought he could spare time, he even sought out new romances with posh Victorian ladies who quite fancied his charming appearance and decorum. But that all changed when he realized, after several years – and by god, he was shocked beyond his wits – that some of the ladies had quite grown suspicious of his youthful appearance that never seemed to change since the day he met them. Also, with no one by his side, he found it extremely difficult to hunt, even killing a few lords because of his insatiable thirst that had to be held in for weeks on end sometimes.

He left for Italy soon after that. It was safe to say that he spiraled into depression and alcoholism. In a way, he did relate to Chris a lot. He knew what it was like to have a family, and he blew his one chance in having that. He withdrew from company, and grew more and more violent.

He preferred not to talk about what happened after.

A few decades later, tired, worn-out, emotionally and physically unstable, and still adamant that he wouldn’t set one foot on the  _Gatiss_ nest, there he stood. Venice was well-known for encouraging and appreciating anything that was related to the fine arts, and when after all these years wherein Mark had suppressed his creative side, he thought it was time he be allowed to appreciate the fine arts without someone telling him it was wrong.

And that was where he met Lord Thomas Hiddleston.

Charming, extremely well-mannered and a fellow art enthusiast, who also just happened to hail from Britain, he found him to be quite interesting and for the first time in decades, a conversation with a human lasted more than three hours.

Tom was the one who asked him whether he’d want to spend dinner with him. Although he knew his stomach wouldn’t digest mortal food, he decided to go anyway because he was deprived of company for far too long and he didn’t want to disappoint his newly found friend.

Their trust in each other grew more by the minute they spent with each other. Benedict found out Tom was actually five years younger than him, (at-least physically) and he managed to convince the latter that he was a bachelor who decided to leave his house because his family couldn’t tolerate his aesthetic sense. He also found out later that the real reason as to why Tom had arrived in Venice was because he was the son of a powerful Lord, and that he was to be wed with the countess of Florence a week later. Benedict could read from the almost-dejected tone in his voice that the affair was not done in his consent, at-least not out of love anyways.

“Do you not wish to be wed to the countess, Mr. Hiddleston?” He asked, after politely declining a second helping of dessert, when he had barely managed to push in the main course in his haemophilic organs.

Tom chuckled lightly as he sliced the lamb in his meal.

“Ben, I think we’re formally acquainted enough to go by a first name basis since I’ve already started using yours’. Please, call me Tom.”

“Well then, Tom. Do you?”

“Well, I’m not against it! The Countess is a fair lady, and our marriage would ensure that our family line will hold a significant name amongst the royalties in Europe.” His face assumed a look of weariness as he uttered the last sentence. He suddenly looked about, made sure that no one was looking at them and then leaned in so that the pitch of their conversation was only limited to Benedict’s audible range.

“But I don’t think I’m quite up to it, you know? I think marriage and all that sort of financial and business aspects aren’t just cut out for me. I’m more of the adventurous sort. To roam about the world, visit new places and learn new languages… not just stay in all stiff-lipped and business-like, trying my best to feign interest in politics.”

And suddenly Benedict felt himself go numb. His eyes widened and he tried his best not to stare at this… wonderful person in front of him, who just proved to him that he was not alone. He realized that Tom was a lot similar to him in many ways – bound to abide by the rules by their family and society when they had plans of their own – and that was there was no escaping them, if they didn’t take a radical step while there was still time.

And Benedict knew just the way to put Tom out of his miseries once in for all. He could even fulfill his wildest fantasies which the possibility of happening when he became someone of high power and regard was infinitesimal. Not to mention, he would benefit from a wonderful companion and he'd never have to fear about going insane from leading a solitary existence ever again.

He looked at Tom straight in the eye and asked him with a hint of audacity gracing his voice. “What would you say if I told you that there is a solution to escaping your sticky ordeal? Would you take it, Tom?”

Tom’s eyebrows knitted together in perplexity. “What do you mean by that?”

Benedict wiped his hands at the cloth placed neatly on the table before calmly placing his palms one upon the other and examined the other’s puzzled face for a second. Then he leaned in that his lips barely brushed at the younger man’s earlobe and spoke in his low, husky tone.

“I’m offering you a way out, Mr. Hiddleston, from what you’re obligated to and to what your heart truly desire. Would you take it?”

The younger Lord’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his face assumed a look of scandalous disbelief. He once again looked around and made sure that no one was looking at them before proceeding to leave their table. Before he walked away from his presence, Tom leaned and whispered in Benedict’s ear.

“Meet me at the rooftop in two minutes.”

Benedict’s eyes flashed with predatory satisfaction and his lips curled in a smirk before he turned back and gazed at his leaving presence. Then, after checking his pocket watch, he abandoned the table and left in search of the easiest way to reach the rooftop of the enormous hotel he was situated at the moment.

The rooftop, it turned out, was situated at the fourth floor from where they had dined. Tom was standing patiently at the top, the wind softly blowing his dark curls on his forehead. He sensed his presence as soon as he set eyes on the night sky.

“I didn’t imagine you’d be this fast. Surely, no one can climb the stairs and reach the fifth floor in a matter of a few seconds.”

Benedict chuckled and walked softly towards Tom. His face was lit with mirth and he took in what could be the last time he would see him in such healthy, mortal skin.

“That’ll all be explained in due time.” He said, approaching him and observing how the moonlight accentuated his features. He felt an odd thirst building up inside him, even though he knew he had finished hunting and had sated his thirst barely twelve hours back.

“So tell me, what should I do?” Tom asked, turning towards him with his head held high.

Benedict sensed Tom’s scent becoming more and more overpowering by the second. He could barely resist himself as he felt his fangs grow slightly sharp and elongated and his body sensed its new victim.

“Are you prepared to do anything, My Lord?” He growled softly, unable to hold back his growing temptation as he approached Tom even nearer and softly caressed his cheek.

Tom flinched for a fraction of a second before regaining his self-assured composure, pretending to ignore how dangerously cold Benedict’s touch on his skin was.

“Yes.”

And that was all he needed to hear before he dipped into the hollow of Tom’s neck and softly but firmly plunged his fangs onto the fast-beating pulse.

And as soon as he felt Tom’s blood grace his lips, his sweet, oh-so-sinful blood, he could no longer restrain himself. He grabbed the younger man’s shoulders and the nape of his neck in an attempt to bring him closer and softly moaned into his skin.

His scent was becoming dangerously pungent to the point that he was saturated in it and all he could think of was more. He smelled of honey and fields of dandelions, and by god, Benedict soon became addicted to it and every other thought that was passing through his head was pushed out of his mind like unwanted paper.

It was only when he felt Tom writhe lightly beneath him was he harshly brought back to his senses. He suddenly released him and in a frenzy, he slashed open his wrist and let his blood flow gently through the other’s lips. Through a hazy, bloodlust-filled gaze, he could only watch as Tom accepted his blood, and felt his pulse grow slow and erratic.

Finally, it came to a stop.

With shaking hands, Benedict gently opened Tom’s eyelids, and never had he felt so relieved when he noticed a red ring slowly forming round his blue pupil.

And after that, softly placing the maturing vampire body between his firm arms, Benedict swiftly exited the place.

* * *

 “Pssh,” Tom chuckled drunkenly, as he leaned forward onto the table for his seventh round of the fermented grape alcohol. Benedict eyed his action skeptically.

“What?”

“Sounds like you were quite the charmer.” Tom said, pouring himself another drink and sinking into the carpeted floor like a thin snake.

Benedict scoffed. “Oh yes, make fun of me as you like. You should know that the ladies I’ve dated were head over heels obsessed with me.”

“Yeah, before you run away in fear of their wrath.”

Tom burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter and doubled over. The older man looked at him with a fond smile. He never regretted turning Tom for a second. He could never ask for a better companion and hunting partner, and he never felt alone and unwanted in a long while.

His only worry was that somehow he thought Tom’s turning into a vampire was not done without his full consent, and that he still regretted it.

“Tom,” He said gravely, when he noticed that the other had calmed down, “Do you think you’re happy like this? I mean….”

“Do I regret being a vampire?” He started to exaggerate a thinking position. “Mhhm, that depends. It’s better off than living in a loveless marriage, that’s for sure. I never could really imagine myself in a strict environment, not that you’ve affected me anyways…” He grinned mischievously to which he received a prompt rolling of eyes and an exasperated sigh.

Tom then sprawled out into the carpet and stared at the ceiling, his smile diminishing when a sudden thought passed his mind. “Actually, there’s this one thing that affects me the most….” He said, solemnly. “More than being immortal or not facing the warmth of the sunlight, both of which I do yearn for to change sometimes, but…”

“What is it?” Benedict asked, slipping away from his couch and sitting beside his ex-pupil.

Tom took another drink from his glass and looked longingly at Benedict. He couldn’t get pass those kicked-puppy eyes which he managed to pull up when he was hurt or he was up to some scheme that required his consent. Needless to say, he used to fall for it often.

“”I just regret that we can’t take a glance at our reflection.” His eyes never wavered from Benedict’s grey ones. “I hate that we can’t look at mirrors, because honestly I don’t even know how I look.”

Benedict chuckled. Whether it was drunk-talk or a plain, heartfelt plea, he found it amusing. Tom grinned at him, waiting for a response.

“You don’t know how you look.” Ben said exasperatingly. Tom nodded.

“Describe it to me!”                                                                                                                                                                                                       

“What?”

“Describe how I look! I can’t be that bad, right?”

Benedict chuckled before looking at Tom’s expectant eyes. Soon he felt all of his common sense and resolve slowly fade away.

“Oh, alright.” He gave in and he slowly sloshed the liquid within the glass he was holding. “Well, you have… “

“Start with my eyes!” Tom was annoyingly enthusiastic.

“You have beautiful eyes.”

“No, I’m not asking for you to add any adjective to it. I’m asking for you to describe the details.”

_‘This will soon end in an argument,’_ thought Benedict as he rubbed his forehead and looked off into the window to try to think of something he could describe his eyes.

“Well, they’re really blue and frankly, they’re the most handsome eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s not true!” Tom interrupted, slurring slightly in his speech.

“Wha... How can you say that?”

“Because yours’ are the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen! God, your eyes, Ben. You should see your eyes. They’re grey and sharp and it really…” He fumbled for a momentbefore finally striking upon the word, “…. accentuates your face! Whenever you smile, it lights up. Whenever you grow angry or focused, it darkens up considerably and it’s quite intimidating. And whenever you laugh your eyes just shine and dance and frankly, they’re beautiful and I could spend ages drowning in those.”

He finished, panting as he said the whole thing without pausing for a breath. Benedict was left speechless as he stared at Tom, unable to say or gesture anything.

“I..”

“And don’t let me start on your hair. They’re the waviest strands of brown hair I’ve ever seen. And god, it looks so soft, I just want to reach out and touch them sometimes. Does that sound weird?”

Benedict was too stunned to even shake his head. Tom continued without even paying the least of attention to the other's expression.

“And your cheekbones. I am in a love-hate relationship with your cheekbones. They’re so prominent and so threatening and so, so … pardon me, for saying this, it’s arousing… I’m sorry! I can’t help but stare when you just stand all dominant and menacing over your victim and it’s the cheekbones that get me everytime.”

It seemed as if a whole hour had passed when Benedict sensed Tom finally ended his rant. He stared, unable to make head-or-tail of him and all that he could choke out was, “…. All this time.”

Tom slumped back into the floor, exhaling loudly. “Well, since I’ve just written an essay on your appearance, how about y…. what were you saying?”

With his drunken mind making perception of actions all-the-more difficult, he hardly had time to react when a sudden pair of lips descended upon his mouth, harshly grabbing his shoulders and slightly tilting his head. Tom could only melt into the embrace and felt his mind go numb just by his sheer touch on his cheek.  

Benedict breathed in his scent, reminiscing the time when he turned him, and realized that it never faded away. He now understood the reason why he always looked forward to their embraces and close shows of affection. It was because he was addicted to Tom’s scent like it was some sort a drug, and he never could get tired of it.

And rendering his ex-pupil vulnerable and helpless under the mercy of his Turner, transpired to empower his dominating side as the kiss grew more fierce and passionate.

“You want me to describe you?” Benedict growled, withdrawing of the kiss, and viciously sucking along his jaw line and neck, earning a small moan of satisfaction from the man below. He grazed his now-sharp canines along Tom’s earlobe, sending shivers down his spine and smirking when his act got the desired effect. “You are the most annoying…” He breathed out, making butterfly kisses in his ear and zygomatic arch, gently kissing his eyelashes, leaving a weak Tom to cling onto his shirt that all too complemented Benedict’s features.

“…. most clumsy….”

Benedict pinned him firmly onto the floor, all-the-more eager to further reduce the younger man to a mass of trembling limbs and wanton moans, to make him scream out his name as he ripped open his shirt and breathed out into his sternum.

“…… most desperate…”

At this point, Tom felt he could no longer hold back as he sensed a husky-tone whispering promises about doing the most unspeakable things, and suddenly he went weak in the knees and tightened his grip onto the other’s shirt.

“….. most wonderful man I’ve ever met.”

With that, Benedict once again crashed his lips onto Tom’s and he felt his mind go ablaze with desire. With one last attempt to block out everything around them, Benedict pulled at the string that held the curtains aside, and watched it unravel and conceal the whole of the French window so that the room was completely devoid of light.

He then turned to the half-naked man, his eyes shining with lust.

“Well then, looks like we have a long night indeed.”


End file.
